All the World's a Stage
by Imogen74
Summary: Fluff. Friendship. Funny. Won't be too long a story...and it has been done...but I felt inspired to have Mary (once more) play matchmaker with a more tender Sherlock and a more sassy Molly.
1. Chapter 1

Mary was holding her daughter, now three moths old. Penelope was a dear, settling nicely into the Watson household, and Mary beamed at the thought.

But Mary was a rambunctious sort, giving way often to flights of fancy, to sudden urges that would overtake her, for her time as an operative left her restive, and her mind would whiz in a mad turmoil. She required an occupation aside from domesticity and clinic work. Her mind drifted to her husband, slack-mouthed as he read the papers, and she smiled. How very much she loved him.

She then thought of the happiness he was experiencing due to the recent developments with Sherlock…how Sherlock was now firmly rerooted in England, his brother Mycroft was certainly a dear man (Mary knew him a little); he oversaw his younger brother with a close eye and a reproachful spirit…though never overly harsh…but kept him in check as best he could.

She sighed. She thought about Janine, the poor girl who was misused by Sherlock…

"John?"

"Yeah," he said, putting down the paper and taking his daughter's tiny hand in his.

"Do you think…" she paused, for the idea was preposterous when uttered aloud. "Do you think…that Sherlock liked Janine?"

John stared at this wife a moment. "What do you mean, liked her? He abused her trust…!"

"Well, she wasn't exactly trustful, now, was she?"

He shook his head. "No…but no. He didn't like her."

She shifted the baby on her lap. "Is he gay?"

A sort of dumbfounded look betook his countenance. "I…honestly…don't know."

"How can you not know that?"

"He's not one to open up about things, is he?"

"No…but…you're his best friend. Probably one of his only."

John rubbed his face. "I dunno, Mary. I'm inclined to say he's not gay…maybe asexual?"

Mary's face scrunched in disagreement. "No…he watches pornography."

"How can you know _that_?"

"I have ways of knowing…"

John got up and went to pour more coffee. "I - don't - want - to - know."

"No, I don't think you would…" she smiled and laughed. "He's lonely."

John returned. "Yeah. I expect he is."

"We should do something."

"We should?"

"Yes! Why not? He needs to get off…"

"Oh god," he was shaking his head.

"…just like everyone else. And he needs companionship."

John Watson never really understood why he loved those two. He imagined it was a chemical imbalance or he was hit in the head as a child, or he was masochistic, or perhaps he was as insane as they were.

But he chose not to argue the point, as he knew he'd lose. Instead, he kissed his wife and daughter goodbye and headed to Baker Street, where his best friend waited, not knowing what was in store.

* * *

"What do you mean, the case is closed, brother? The man is not in police custody," Mycroft was standing by the door, irritated at his younger brother's reluctance at being forthcoming. He was so inclined to these silly games that Mycroft really couldn't be bothered with.

"NSY is so full of complete morons, Mycroft, it'll be a feat if they approach competency within the next century."

"That's not a proper answer."

"I gave Lestrade the directions. Honestly," he continued, getting up. "Google is idiot proof. Type in the address and follow the map. Just don't give it to Anderson."

"Did you tell the DI this?"

"Yeeesss."

Mycroft sighed. "Very well. I hope you're right…"

"I am," he interjected.

"Yes. Well, good morning, brother."

Sherlock grunted his goodbye, and in walked John.

"What's wrong with Mycroft?"

"His favorite bake shop has discontinued his most beloved cake," he said, not looking up. He was stationed at the kitchen table, peering through a microscope.

"Right. How are we this morning?"

Sherlock looked up. "What's going on?"

"What?" he appeared confused. "On?"

"You never ask me how I am unless you have some news concerning Mary, or you wish for time off, or you heard from Lestrade about some silly error NSY has committed, or you have indigestion from some concoction your wife made the night previous…what was it? Bad eggs?"

He shook his head. "Ah…well…no. No…Mary wants to invite you to dinner."

Sherlock sat back in his chair, and steepled his fingers. "Dinner."

"Yes…right. Dinner."

His eyes scrunched as he thought a moment. "Which of your silly friends is she attempting to match me with?"

John sighed. He shook his head in defeat. "Anne."

"Anne…?"

"Yes…the one with the glasses…"

He rolled his eyes dramatically and stood, shoved his hands in his pockets and entered the sitting room. "Anne! That tiresome librarian?"

"Book shop owner…"

He waved his hands. "Books!" He turned toward John. "I don't need…desire…seek out…companionship…especially female…"

"Oh right? Male, then?" He looked earnestly at his friend.

Sherlock ran his hand through his hair. "No, John. Not male, either," he sounded tired at this. "If I were gay, do you honestly think I would have lived with you?"

"Well…"

"NO! I wouldn't have done. No. I am not homosexual."

"Oh….well…" he began to run through his list of possibilities.

"I'm heterosexual."

"You are?"

"Don't sound so surprised. I only told you so that you wouldn't hurt yourself attempting to retrieve all of the possibilities for my sexuality in your mind closet…" he stopped. "No pun intended."

"You really are a git."

Sherlock smiled dramatically…and then an idea sprung to mind.

"Actually, John…why don't you head to the clinic…or home….or whatever dull place you go when you're not here…" he said, ushering him out of the flat.

"Why? No cases?"

"Nope. Solved them all."

"All?"

"Tell Mary I'd be delighted to join you for dinner, but I'll bring my own date."

"You'll bring your own…?"

"For gods sake, man! Stop repeating me!" and John Watson left the flat.

* * *

Her hair was such a bother. It really seemed like it mattered little how many pins she used to adhere it, it was stubborn, and constantly slipped into her field of vision. Molly blew the irksome strand up from her face, and sighed.

She really was so much happier now that Tom was gone. He wasn't a bad man, just a bad…fiance. Luckily, their lives hadn't intertwined to the point where a long, drawn out break up took place. Painful though it was, it only took a couple of days to return belongings and such. She rather believed that she had entered the engagement to shut him up, to provide distraction, to fill her life with something, for she had come to the conclusion that her life was fairly boring.

As if on cue, Sherlock Holmes entered the lab where she was working. Though it cannot be said that the torch she held for him was nearly as bright, it still weighed heavily on her back, increasing in volume since his return, for they were, Molly believed, closer friends than they ever had been.

"Hey, Sherlock," she addressed him in familiar tone, and smiled.

"Molly. I need a favor," he took off his coat.

"Shocking."

"Yes…I need you to accompany me to dinner at John's and Mary's," he took out his phone. "Tomorrow evening," he finished, reading the text.

"You're asking me to dinner?"

"That's right."

"As a date."

"Well…" his eyebrow cocked a bit at this. "Not exactly a date…"

"What, then?"

"A…companion. A friend."

Molly smiled. "And will John and Mary expect this to be a merely friendly date?"

"Meaning….?"

"Well…are they expecting us to be…more than friends?"

Sherlock considered this a moment. He supposed that the more romantic (dull) the dinner appeared, the less likely Mary would insist on meddling in his life. When, after a sufficient amount of time passed, he'd let her know it didn't work out, and she would then see him to be the bachelor he was. "Yes. Yes…I think that that would be wise."

Molly sighed. "Why do you want me to do this?"

"Well…you're a woman."

"Brilliant."

He smiled. "Right…and Mary is attempting to match me with her tiresome friends. I merely want her to cease any further interference, and the quickest and most effective way in which I can think of is to already be in a relationship. You, Molly, are available, you are clever, you aren't unattractive, you are amusing…and any want in terms of a wardrobe is easily rectified. I'll shop for you tomorrow."

Molly stood there with her mouth agape. "How can you run off my attributes in such a way that I am simultaneously horrified and pleased?"

"It's a gift." And he winked.

"Hardly."

"So…tomorrow. Shall we go to the shops together?"

Molly shook her head in disbelief. "Yeah. Ok. One o'clock?"

He clapped his hands. "Wonderful! See you at Baker Street at one."

And he dashed out.

Well, this ought to be good for a laugh, which was the primary reason she agreed to it. Tall, debonaire, well-spoken gits notwithstanding.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock Holmes was a man of many talents. Surprisingly, shopping for ladies' clothing was among them. He didn't take her anywhere posh, for though his air suggested snobbiness, he actually was fairly grounded in his taste (see chips and Chinese food).

"Don't you ever eat salad?"

They were eating lo mein outside, and though there was a very slight chill in the air, Molly hardly noticed.

"Salad?" he uttered it as though she had suggested eating live boar.

"Yeah…you know…green stuff? Dressing?"

He sat back in his chair. "Occasionally, now that you mention it. I never think of it."

"Food or salad?"

"Both."

Molly looked crookedly. "How can you not think about food?"

"The same way I never think about sex."

She coughed on her water. "No….?" her hoarse reply spluttered out.

He laughed. "Does that make you uncomfortable? You'd better get used to it…" and he continued to eat the noodles.

"Sex? I hadn't realized that was part of the arrangement. Really, Sherlock, do you take me for some sort of prostitute?"

He appeared affronted. "No! I meant to suggest that we will be…affectionate in front of John and Mary…acting. You see the difference."

"How affectionate are we talking? Hand holding, or outright snogging?"

He considered. "Well…I don't mean to suggest that you rip your clothes off in front of them…but Mary is trained, you know. It won't do to merely hold hands, look longingly, that sort of rubbish…no…perhaps we should play it by ear."

She scrunched her nose. "You'll need to direct me."

His eyes shot up. "What do you mean?"

"You're the orchestrator of all this, Sherlock. You are the…brains…" she paused. "I'm in it for a laugh. The morgue is becoming increasingly dull, and without Tom around as a passable diversion, I thought might as well go along with this escapade than not."

"You're doing this because you're bored?"

"Hmmm, yes," she nodded. "Yes…I still love my job, mind, but I dunno…it's nice to have something else to think about," and she got up from the table. "Ready?"

He was a bit taken aback by this. Molly was bored. Fascinating.

* * *

"You cannot be serious," he looked at the cocktail dress (if you could call it such…it was missing too much dress).

"What?" she giggled. "I want to be believable."

"As what, exactly? A flapper? A call girl? An advertisement for black tissues?"

"I thought you went in for that sort of thing…Irene Adler…couldn't you see her in this?"

His eyes fell…he cleared his throat.

Uh-oh. She may have touched a nerve. "Sorry…I…" she put the dress back. "Sherlock…? Are you ok?"

"Fine," and he rummaged through the dresses.

"Did you…like her?"

He didn't answer.

"Love her, then?" her heart felt tight at that. She never thought that he would've fallen in love with anyone, let alone Irene Adler.

"No, of course not…I…" …slept with her. He had slept with her, and he had regretted it, and he didn't want Molly to attempt to be anything like her. He looked at her. "No, Molly. I didn't love her…didn't like her much, either…but I did…" he looked away. "I had slept with her."

"Oh. Well, I'm not surprised."

"You aren't?"

"No. She was lovely. Sexy. She liked you…why wouldn't you…?" and her voice trailed, for she suddenly realized that she had liked him, but he never had slept with her. Not lovely or sexy enough, she guessed…

"That's not why."

"No? Why not, then?"

"Because…she was…difficult to ignore…she practically threw herself at me…I'm only human, after all," he was attempting to explain that the only reason he had slept with the dominatrix was because she made him feel sexy…that she was so forthright in her advances, he was nearly raped.

But Molly heard him saying that Irene was so appealing he couldn't help himself. He then took something from the rack of clothing. "This might suit you," and he held up a dress with Hello Kitty on the front, a bubblegum pink monstrosity that would only appeal to a five year old.

Molly slapped his arm with much force.

* * *

"…I cannot account for her cooking skills, as wanting as they are. John experiences indigestion with startlingly regularity," they walked into 221B and threw the parcels on the sofa.

"You've invited me to be some sort of food taster? To make sure she's not attempting to poison you?"

He laughed and put the kettle on. "Yes…that's right. And Mycroft will be joining us too. He's lamenting his cake, and needs the company of acquaintances who sympathize with his unfortunate loss."

"Loss?'

"Of cake. He also is an excellent choice to ascertain poisonous intent,' and he handed her a biscuit tin. "Now, Molly. We need to concoct our story."

"Yes…I had thought about that…"

_Sherlock arrived at the morgue looking a bit worse for wear. It had been a month since he had shot Magnussen, and his conscience was wearing on him. How could he reconcile his tortured mind with the longing he felt in his heart? Molly. Molly was the answer to the turmoil. Molly with her laugh…her smile…her goodness…her full lips and luscious breasts…._

"Hang on. Luscious breasts and full lips?"

She smirked. "Well, why not?"

"I believe you are compensating for a slip I had made one Christmas…."

"And what better way to make up for it then by making my lips and breasts the object of your fierce desire?" she said with emphasis.

"MY fierce desire?"

"YOUR idea, Sherlock."

"I have a better idea…"

_He was standing by the window at Baker Street, his violin singing in his hands. He had been ruminating the very essence of life and the fact that he had snuffed one out mere weeks previous._

"Good god," Molly sighed.

"Don't interrupt."

_ He heard a disturbance, and turned around to see Molly standing, sopping wet…_

"Was it raining?"

"Obviously…"

"Well...I only mention it because I'm not such an idiot that I'd leave my flat without an umbrella."

"It's for effect, Molly."

"What? Me being an idiot?"

"No! You're realization was so overwhelming that you didn't notice the rain! Do keep up..."

_She rushed to him, threw her arms around his neck, and sobbed fervently. How could she have been so blind to the rush of her heart? How could she have ever thought for one moment that that meat dagger could ever compare to his own, masculine sword? No…it was too much, and she nearly throttled him from the years of unrequited passion… _

"Masculine sword."

"It's a reference to…"

"I know bloody well what it's referencing! Jesus," and she shook her head.

"It's completely believable," he said, looking crookedly.

"I won't even honor THAT statement with a retort."

"What?" and he smiled.

She laughed.

"We went for coffee," they said in unison.

"I was nervous…" Sherlock continued.

"I began to stammer again…"

"So I held your hand and told you…"

"That there's no need to be nervous…"

"I've always loved you," he finished. And gulped. "Yes…that'll do, I think," he stood up. "We should get ready."


	3. Chapter 3

Molly was fixing her makeup and hair. Nothing too extravagant, but she figured she may as well look nice. She smiled at herself in the glass, pleased with the way the blue dress clung to her shape, and went out into the sitting room.

"All set," she announced.

"Hmmm," replied Sherlock, not looking up from his phone. "They're expecting us…" and he looked. "You…that dress is very nice, Molly," he smiled.

"Thanks. You picked it out, remember?"

"Ah, yes. Excellent taste," and they went to fetch a cab.

* * *

Mary was watching the pair with a curious eye. She had suspected something was afoot the day Molly slapped him in the lab, but nothing so far gone as an actual relationship. While they certainly appeared to be comfortable with one another, it was difficult to ascertain any particular regard.

Mary set out the salads.

Sherlock observed them with a hint of doubt.

Molly took his hand in hers, "Salads, Sherlock…recall? Green stuff with dressing?"

"Ah, yes," and he bent his face toward the plate to administer a cautious sniff. "Any eggs in this evening's fare, Mary?" he asked smilingly, with a glance toward John.

"No, why? Do you fancy eggs?" Mary asked.

"Not particularly. I had a run in with a bad egg. Nasty business," and he turned toward the offending salad.

Mary couldn't decide if he was being obtuse on purpose or not, and decided to change the subject to help guide her opinion on the evening.

"So, you two like children?"

Sherlock stopped eating and looked at her. "Not for dinner usually, no, though I like them marginally better than eggs."

Molly and John laughed heartily at this.

Mary giggled, too, but quickly diffused the situation. "No…I meant, have you thought about having your own…someday?"

"Have we thought about children, Molly?" he turned toward her, with a questioning look and wide eyes.

"Hardly! We only just began dating!" and she laughed and waved her hand dismissively.

"Oh, I know that…but I meant in general terms, not particular," Mary went on.

"Oh…well," Molly began. "I've never really given it much thought…children are nice…they're small…"

"Explains why you like John, then, Molly," Sherlock interjected. "No wonder you embraced the idea of children, Mary…Molly just described your husband."

"Shut up," John spat. "Let your girlfriend finish."

Mary looked at Molly…there was something…."Did Tom want children?"

Sherlock's fork went to his plate with some force. "I should hope not. That idiot, imparting his genetics on the future!"

"He rather looked like you, mate," John mumbled.

"I heard that John…and yes, he may have resembled me physically, but I assure you, that's where it ended."

Molly cleared her throat. "Yes, Tom wanted children…I'm not adverse to the idea, it's just not something I think about very often. And while it may be something that happens in the future, I'm really not that fussed about it now…I'm just happy that I finally get to be with this great git, and share my life with him," there, she thought that should deflect any further questioning about children, or Tom-hate. Not that she minded, necessarily, but she didn't care for where this was going.

Her hand slipped over Sherlock's, and she squeezed it, then looked up at his face in a most forlorn manner. "Sweetheart, could you pour me some wine?" she pouted. A second passed where he looked quizzically, but quickly turned it into a wink and a smile, and acquiesced to her request.

Dinner was served, and the two couples ate the roast without much in terms of awkwardness.

However, John wasn't buying this at all. He knew his friend, and he thought it was unlikely that suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, he would suddenly take a fancy to Molly Hooper. Molly Hooper, of all people. "So," began John. "How did this all come about, anyway?"

Molly smiled at her date, who returned her smile with a peck on her cheek. "He was a bit shy about it…"

"As I recall, dear, it was you who was the shy one…" he interjected.

"No, no. I distinctly recall your manner…halted…stilted…"

"I am never 'stilted'," he protested.

"Except when making declarations," and her hand found his thigh, and she squeezed, receiving an arched eyebrow as a response.

John was enjoying this. "Do go on," he said, eager and rapt.

Molly looked away from Sherlock, but keeping her hand in place, continued. "Yes…well. He brought me my coffee, which was nice. And he went to his usual place to look at slides. He then asked if I'd like to join him after my shift for some dinner…I immediately thought that was strange, for he seldom eats. Well…anything real," she paused, and seized the moment to once more reach up and kiss his cheek. "And then…you know, he became a bit confused…"

"Molly, you are remembering this all wrong. I wasn't confused, I was nervous. I had been thinking about this for quite some time, and I didn't want to scare you off," he corrected her. "You had built me up in your head…"

"At any rate," she continued on, hardly acknowledging his speech. "He went on about how he wasn't any good at this sort of thing, rubbish at feelings and emotions and love…and I listened, but I really just wanted to cry," and she stopped, her voice catching. "Because, you see, John," she looked at John, "…and Mary," acknowledging Mary. "I had loved him for so long…I had cried so much…and it's true! I had built him up…but," and she turned to him, "I wasn't wrong," and she kissed him tenderly on the mouth.

His breath unexpectedly caught at the proximity of her mouth to his, and he felt displaced for a moment, a strange sensation pass over his person.

Molly pulled away, and moved her hand from his leg. She smiled at Sherlock, having not removed her eyes form his face.

"Well. That is a story!" exclaimed Mary. "So…how many dates has it been, then?"

"Four," said Sherlock.

"Six," said Molly at the same time.

They looked at one another, and laughed.

"You're not counting that stakeout, are you, love? That was hardly a proper date," Sherlock exclaimed.

"I do if I'm with you…" Molly winked.

John rolled his eyes. "You took her on a stakeout?"

"You always enjoyed them," he said, sipping his wine.

"Yeah, but we weren't dating."

"No…but I had heard some people believed otherwise," and he looked at Molly. "So…we should get going, don't you think?"

Molly shrugged. "Whatever you like."

Mary stood, "How about next Friday we do this again? We could get out…go dancing or something…it'd be lovely to leave the flat for a night."

Molly blushed a bit. "Oh…I don't know, Mary. I can't really dance."

"Nonsense! You're being rather critical of yourself, Molly. I've seen you dance…its like nothing I've ever experienced!" Sherlock was affected, dramatic in his praise.

"I'm sure," Molly dropped her gaze. She had thought this was a one-off. "No…dancing…not my area."

"I'll assist you. I taught John."

"He did," John agreed.

"I…alright…" Molly caught Sherlock's gaze and narrowed her eyes a touch.

"Wonderful! I'll see you Monday, John," and Sherlock gave Mary a peck on the cheek, ushering Molly out the door.

* * *

"What the hell, Sherlock Holmes! Dancing?"

"Do calm yourself, Molly. I'll help you," he was scrolling through his phone.

"This was a one-time thing. I have dinner with you, you leave me alone."

"I don't recall that as the arrangement."

"I just changed the terms," she replied, looking out the window.

He sighed. "What is the matter?"

"The matter is, is I had plans for Friday, and now you've gone and mucked it up."

"Plans?"

She sighed. "Yeah. You know. An anticipation to do something…a decision made for something to happen in the future…plans."

He smiled at her wit. "Well…cancel them."

"God you are a prat. Cancel them! Why should I?"

"Because, Molly Hooper, I am going to take you dancing with the Watson's, and you aren't going to want to miss out on that," he said cooly.

"Why? Are you that bloody good?"

He looked at her very steadily in the dark of the cab. "Yes," his voice was low and seemed to shake the cab itself.

Molly's mouth hung open a second. "How did you do that?"

"Do what?" he returned to his phone and the moment had passed.

"Hit a note that low with your voice?"

"I had part of my vocal cords partially severed while tracking a terrorist in Morocco."

Molly's face scrunched at this. "Not really."

"No. I sung baritone as a child. It's a trained voice…" he continued with his phone.

Molly almost consented to believe him. Then she slapped his arm.

"Why do I ever believe you?!"

"No idea. But if you continue to hit my arm like that, I might need to show you my real skill," his eyes graced her person with purpose.

"Oh really?"

"Hmmm."

She laughed. "Seeing as how my engagement is over, I won't be requiring any serviettes to be made."

"Mary?" he looked up.

"Mary."

"Blast!" he said, and they laughed.


	4. Chapter 4

"He has it bad," Mary said, cleaning up the dinner with her short, sweet husband.

"Who?"

"Sherlock."

John looked at her with some doubt. "No...they're not really dating."

"Oh, I know. But he fancies her all the same."

"He does? Molly Hooper?" he thought a moment. "That's an interesting turn..."

"They were flirting something fierce."

John considered. "Yeah...I guess they were..."

"Quite," replied his wife.

John looked at Mary. "So…what do we do? Let on that we know?"

She laughed, "And spoil the fun? Never."

* * *

He was only half listening to Mycroft complain about the case. Of course NSY had completely ruined the apprehension of the suspect, and of course some sort of alert was unnecessarily registered. Why he was being so smug and shocked, Sherlock had not clue.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmmm?"

"Are you paying attention at all?"

Sherlock looked up to see his brother giving him a crooked glare. "I've heard it all before, Mycroft. Its boring."

"What are you working on?" he had noticed him typing and mucking about with the laptop, but hadn't questioned the business.

"Music."

"I'm sorry?"

Sherlock heaved a sigh. "Music. I'm arranging some playlists."

"Whatever for?"

"Dancing," and he got up to get some coffee from the kitchen.

"Indeed?"

"Coffee, Mycroft? Fresh out of cake, I'm afraid…" and he smirked.

"I am on a diet, as you are well aware…you make mention of it enough…" he stood in the doorway to the kitchen. "You're dancing?"

"No. I'm training various dignitaries across the continent in rhythmic interpretative dance. It'll help secure world peace, as I calculate," Sherlock handed his brother a cup.

"You should invite Russia…their dignitaries require distraction."

"They require much more than that, unfortunately…"

Mycroft smiled. "In all seriousness, Sherlock, why are you practicing dance?"

"I'm going to help Molly with her dancing," and he sat back down at his laptop.

"Hooper?"

"That's right."

Mycroft pulled a face and sat down once more. "I thought her engagement was over. Why would she require lessons of there is to be no wedding?"

"People dance in other situations than a wedding…and yes, the engagement is over, thank god."

"Indeed?"

Sherlock sat back in his chair. "That Tom-person was an idiot in the extreme. Molly requires someone with at least the intelligence of a 15 year old."

"Is that so."

"What?"

"Well, I'd measure your intelligence to be that of a 15 year old, brother."

"Surely a bit more than that, if we aren't using your mind as a scale…" he went back to the music.

"Why? Too superior?" Mycroft scoffed.

"No…too pre-diabetic," he said, without looking up. "Was there anything else, Mycroft?"

"No, I think that's all. I'll call in a few days to inquire after the lessons…" he left twirling his umbrella.

"Wonderful, I look forward to it much the way you look forward to a root canal," Sherlock yelled in his wake, and he smiled.

* * *

The door to 221B was open, so Molly walked in.

"Hello?"

"Ah, Molly. Right on time," and he handed her some tea.

"Thanks," and she took a sip. Just as she liked it: milk, one sugar. "So…you are going to show me how to dance?"

"Well, I'm certain you know HOW to dance, but perhaps not how to dance with me…so that's what we will be practicing," and he sat.

"Is dancing with you so very different from dancing with anyone else?"

"Obviously."

"You certainly have a puffed-up opinion of yourself, but I suppose I'm not surprised…" she finished.

"You think me vain?" he asked, with a hint of hurt.

"No. I think you have a predisposition toward a high opinion of your abilities or worth," and Molly smiled.

"That sounds suspiciously like vanity."

"Does it?" and she smirked.

He set down his cup. "Perhaps, Molly, you might delve a little deeper with your superior mind and understanding of human psychology to better understand the goings on in a person with extraordinary abilities in some areas, while struggling horribly in others, and reach the conclusion that often said persons are compensating for their lack of confidence in areas of life which they are not so well-versed by focusing attention on those in which they excel."

"Are you suggesting that these…people….you reference might suffer from a sort of low self image?" Molly knew this was the case, that he actually thought rather bad about himself, she merely liked to tease him and knock him down a notch or two.

"It isn't outside the realm of possibility."

"Well, if that is the case, then I'd say to these people that they are, more likely than not, wrong in their estimation, that they have many worthwhile abilities that many people envy, and that their opinion of whatever they deem as lacking, is probably skewed by bias."

"Oh."

Molly smiled at his abbreviated response. "Shall we start? Where are we going, anyway?"

Sherlock snapped himself out of his reverie. "Well, Mary had called with her idea…it's some popular place called EGG…?"

"Oh! Yeah…I've never been."

"Well, apparently she selected it because it's smoker-friendly…"

"But you quit."

"Mary seems to think I'll appreciate the freedom to smoke," he shrugged and went to his iPod dock. "No jazz, thank god, but I imagine there'll be little in terms of traditional dancing…"

"Oooohh…maybe they'll play the Electric Slide."

Sherlock turned to her with a look of confusion. "The what?"

"You know! That fun line dance-thingy…90s, I believe…"

"Line dance thingy. Your eloquence is unparalleled."

"Oh come one! You know that song!"

He sighed loudly, sat down, crossed his legs, while a song emerged from the iPod. "Even if I did, line dancing bears the rather dubious distinction of a direct parallel to the downfall of modern society. I refuse to partake in anything so heinous as furthering our demise as a species. Now, Molly, let's see what you can do…"

Molly looked at him blankly. "You mean…you want me to just…dance for you?"

"Yep."

"Just…right here…? By myself?"

"You catch on quickly."

"That's…kinky, Sherlock," she said and scrunched up her face.

"Molly…there is nothing sexual in my intent…but I need to know your level of competency before we proceed…and I'd hardly be able to do that if I'm dancing WITH you…so…go on."

She sighed and stood. "I haven't felt this ridiculous since that threesome with those cross dressers from York…"

"Excuse me?" though he had certainly heard what she said.

Molly laughed and began to dance.

The song ended, and she stood, waiting for him to comment. "Well?"

"Molly, if I wanted to watch the mating ritual of some exotic bird, I'd've either put on Planet Earth or called Mrs. Hudson up to dance."

"Alright, then, Mr. I-Know-How-To-Dance-So-Bloody-Well…go to it," and she sat to watch his performance.

And he did, and he wasn't half bad, but Molly wasn't about to let him go without some snark. She began fiddling with her phone.

"It's rude not to pay attention…" he said, arms folded.

"Oh! You're alright! I was just checking Google for methods to quell an epileptic seizure…"

"Get up," Sherlock said, with force and authority.

Molly felt a sudden rush of adrenaline at his voice, it seemed to shake her very soul. She stood, as bidden, and went to him.

He laughed to demonstrate that he thought her jibe was funny, and they proceeded to dance to the music on his iPod.

An hour or so later, Molly declared herself tired, and sat down to her cold tea.

"You really are an excellent dancer, I'm sorry I doubted you," she said.

"It's fine…I know you'll not make that mistake again."

She smiled. "I doubt you'll let me."

He winked at her playfully. "More tea, then?"

"Oh…no thanks…I should get going…" she looked at her phone to ascertain the time.

"Oh?"

"Yes…I didn't cancel my plans…I rescheduled them for this evening."

"Ah, yes…the infamous plans…where are you going?"

"Dinner," she was suddenly a touch uncomfortable.

"Dinner?"

"Yes…a…date."

He swallowed. This was unexpected. "Date."

"Yes…a date…with a man..." she watched him with curiosity.

"Oh, well…good," and he stood. "Well…I'll not keep you…" He gathered up the tea things and carried them to the kitchen.

Molly blanched and looked away at his sudden change in demeanor. "What time tomorrow? And should I just come here?" She got up and put her coat on.

"Yes…come here…" he called out. "Eight, I think, should do…"

"Alright…" Molly went into the kitchen. "Well…I'll see you tomorrow night…"

"Yep," and he turned to face her. "Have a wonderful night, Molly," and he smiled.

She walked over to him, placed her hands on his shoulders, and kissed his cheek.

His eyes closed at the contact and affection.

"Thanks for the lesson, Sherlock. It was lovely," and she left.

Sherlock Holmes breathed deeply, and went over to the window to watch her leave. He picked up the violin, and began to play.


	5. Chapter 5

He had showered and dressed, and was now smoking a cigarette, though he couldn't account for the craving. He was all in black, figuring it suitable enough for a club.

The playful nature of his relationship with Molly was pleasant, and he had to admit it was fun. There were precious few people he had met who could not only withstand his wit but match him (yes, if he were honest, she matched him). That was the source of his disappointment when she announced she had to leave the night previous, surely.

He went to the loo, looked in the glass, and ruffled his hair. Molly was due now any minute….

* * *

How much she hated heels she really couldn't say. Though Molly wasn't clumsy, generally speaking, she certainly had less grace when hindered by three inch heels. And she was going to go dancing in them. Damn Sherlock and his six foot frame!

Molly's date last night was less than eventful, but Eric had asked her out weeks and weeks ago, and she really couldn't avoid it any longer. She had already made so many excuses, it was bordering ridiculous; he was persistent, and Molly figured she had better just get on with it and go out with him.

Molly's mind had acquiesced to the idea that she would very likely be alone for some time, if not forever. She didn't mind, not really, for the business with Tom had taught her that she may just not be marriage material, at least while Sherlock Holmes occupied her thoughts with such fierce regularity.

Yes, she still fancied him…in fact, a bit more so now that she was truly herself around him. But she had given up any hope of romance, and though she was loathe to admit it, she felt a bit relieved. It was better this way, for John had left, and now he could grow close with Molly…and with her resolve, she needn't concern herself over whether he would ever reciprocate her feelings, for she had learned to be fine with it never coming to fruition.

Her solace was in the fact that he would never engage in romance with anyone, so jealousy was out of the picture (though it did take her aback when he mentioned his tryst with Irene).

Molly finished with her makeup, and looked at herself. For some reason, she took better care with her appearance than when they had gone to the Watson's. Well, they were going OUT.

She hoped this escapade of his would be over soon, for she was beginning to feel put out, a bit put off, and dangerously close to something resembling want in terms of affection from Sherlock.

Stop it, Molly. You like yourself and your life this way, and so does he. He is so attentive now, and not simply because of this act…it began before he had approached her about it…and now, to see it through.

She wrapped herself in a black sweater that nearly hit her knee, and tied the belt. She applied some lipstick and left the flat.

* * *

The place was loud, and the party of four were told that there was a back area where people could sit and not be inundated with the sound of the music. They made their way to the back and John went to obtain drinks for them all.

Sherlock stood looking at the crowd with the ladies.

"Well, Sherlock, what do you think of the place?" Mary asked.

"It's a rather pathetic display of primal appetites and urges with a pitiful soundtrack to accompany it."

Molly laughed. "I don't think he cares for it, Mary."

"No…I didn't think that he would, but it might suit for a laugh."

"How are these people allowed to leave their flats? It's no wonder crime is on the rise," Sherlock remarked, increasingly irritated with the crowd.

"And who would you suggest police them, not allowing them exit from their homes?" Molly inquired.

"Well, since NSY is completely inept at solving crimes, perhaps babysitting is a more suitable occupation."

Molly laughed, "But then who would be the police?"

"If these idiots never left their houses, there would be no need for police."

"Yes..and you would be out of work," Molly astutely observed.

Molly looked at Mary and rolled her eyes. "Should we dance, then, love? I've longed to have your body close to mine moving in musical tandem…"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at this. "That sounded suspiciously like a veiled invitation…"

"Nothing veiled about it…" and Molly's hand started at his shoulder and moved down his arm until her hand caught his in a grasp…she led him back to the main room and onto the dance floor.

John came back with the drinks. "Where are the lovebirds?"

"Dancing."

"And…any developments?"

"Molly just uttered a sexual innuendo and Sherlock responded favorably," she replied, smiling.

"Do they even know what they are doing?" he asked, shaking his head in dismay.

"You mean falling in love? Probably not."

The pair returned about 15 minutes later and Molly was laughing, "But you can't SAY that to people, Sherlock! You'll start a bar fight!"

"What? He was obviously married. Why shouldn't I intervene?"

"Because it's not your business," and Molly sipped her whiskey sour.

"What just happened?" Mary asked.

"Oh, the usual. Sherlock noticed that some girl was involved with a married man and she didn't realize it, so he told her, and the man nearly punched him."

"He wouldn't have gotten far in that endeavor," said Sherlock.

"He was rather big," Molly observed.

After sipping his own whiskey, he returned, "Big? Molly, surely you are aware that I am skilled in the martial arts, boxing, and a number of other defensive skills…he would have posed no challenge."

"Show off," Molly returned.

Sherlock smiled.

"I need to use the loo, Molly…care to join me?" Mary asked.

"Sure." And they left.

The ladies left the gentlemen alone at the bar.

"So…you and Molly…"

"Yeeesss."

"Sorry, mate. I just can't get over it. Shocking, that's what it is."

He frowned. "What's shocking about it?"

"Well," began John. "It's just…she fancied you for so long…and then one day, you tell me you're dating…and you have this banter…and she's so different…not unlike you, really."

"Is that all?"

"Not even close."

"John, I cannot help that you fail to see the loveliness that is Molly Hooper…I've always cared for her…and she's a good friend. Don't make that face. Why is it so difficult to believe that I should have feelings for her?"

John shook his head. "Because…you are Sherlock Holmes. That's why."

Sherlock's face fell, and he took another sip.

* * *

"I can't believe it, Molly! You and Sherlock! And the two if you are so funny together! And playful! And just adorable!"

Molly laughed. "Yeah…it's pretty funny."

"No…not just funny…you really love him, don't you?"

Molly gulped. "I…well, of course I do."

"Don't play coy, Molly…I see the way the two of you look at one another."

Molly blushed. "We…" she began. "I mean…yeah…new love…its pretty intense."

Mary smiled widely. "He loves you, you know. Has he said it yet?"

"No!" Molly exclaimed. "He's…you know…rather shy about professions of anything emotional. Do you…do you think he does?"

"Of course."

"Oh." Molly blushed again. "Well..shouldn't leave my date too long…"

The ladies were on their way back from the bathroom. The place was rather crowded, and it was difficult to navigate. Molly kept bumping into people, and her heels hindered any dexterous movement she attempted to make. She finally fell into one particularly intoxicated bloke, and apologizing profusely, attempted to disentangle herself from his person. At that, the man grabbed her arse, and pulled Molly into a rather fierce and disgusting kiss.

Molly pushed him hard on the chest, but he wouldn't relent, and so she kneed him rather forcefully in the groin.

At that, he buckled, but not before a tall, black figure had come from seemingly nowhere and had him pinned against the wall.

Sherlock's left hand was holding his shirt, his right was holding his neck firmly against the wall.

"If you ever so much as look at that woman again I'll have one of your appendages hanging in my sitting room, and I'll let her decide which one I sever."

"Sherlock!" Molly exclaimed, running over and tugging at his arm.

He let go, never looking away from the offender's face, and allowed himself to be guided away from the scene.

"My god, Sherlock. What the hell were you thinking?" Molly asked as Mary looked at John with an open mouth and wide eyes.

"I was thinking that I'd like an arm to test mercury poisoning on," he replied.

"But! But! I had the situation well in hand! Do you think that was the first time I'd ever been handled by a drunken arse?"

"No…but it was the first time it had happened with me as your boyfriend…" he finished, choking a bit on the last part. "As long as I'm around, Molly Hooper, no harm shall come to you."

He uttered those last words with emphasis, and held her gaze with intensity.

Molly swallowed. "Ok."

* * *

John and Mary were driving the pair back to Molly's flat. It was a bit more quiet than the group was accustomed to, but given the events, that was understandable.

Sherlock got out of the car in front of her building, and went around to let Molly out as soon as she was opening the door. She paused at the chivalry, and smiled to herself.

"Well, John, Mary. have a good evening," Sherlock said.

"You two kids have fun!" John exclaimed, and winked at Sherlock, who pulled a face in confusion at this.

The two headed into her building, and Molly stopped. "Well…that was…fun…"

"You didn't enjoy yourself?"

"No…I did. Just…you really overreacted, Sherlock. I appreciate it and all, but it was a bit much."

He pouted a touch. "Sorry…I suppose…yes. I might've been a bit too reactionary."

"But it was sweet! I've never had anyone run to my rescue quite like that."

He smiled at her. "My pleasure," he took he hands out of his coat pocket and fidgeted. "Well…I suppose we should begin thinking about a breakup….should we go up to your flat to discuss it?"

"Alright," and they ascended the stairs. They went inside, and Molly took off her sweater, took Sherlock's coat, and hung them both up. "Nightcap?"

He sat on her sofa. "Ok…but I do hope that it isn't merely that bubbly stuff you tend towards."

Molly called in from the kitchen. "Hardly! It's whiskey. Here…" she entered the room and handed it to him. "And I don't tend towards anything of the sort…"

"Molly…anyone who has lacy curtains likes fizzy drinks."

She looked crookedly at him. "They were my mum's, and I can't be bothered to change them."

"Nevertheless, the logic stands," he said, sipping.

"So…how should we go about this?"

"Well…I imagine some sort of argument in front of them should suffice."

Molly pondered. "What sort of argument?"

"Dunno…you've got more experience in this sort of thing than I do…what did you and he-whose-meat-dagger-must-not-be-named argue about?' he smiled at her.

Molly laughed. "You, actually…" she stopped, realizing what she had just admitted to. "I mean…you know…the attention I gave…I mean…" and she blushed. Dammit.

He gulped, understanding fully what she was about to say. "Well…perhaps I can feign some jealousy or some such nonsense…"

"No," Molly said. "It'd be more believable if I were the one who was jealous."

"And why is that?" thinking that she was doubting his ability to appear jealous.

"Because I have experience with being jealous of the attention you give other women," she blurted out. No more alcohol, Molly.

He looked away and downed his drink. "If you like."

"It's fine. When should we do this?"

He got up. "I'll invite them to dinner at Baker Street…when are you free?"

"Um, well…Sunday I have off…" and she rose as well.

"Sunday, then," and he went to move passed her…but he was too quick in his movement, and his arm brushed her side…"Sorry…" he muttered.

"S'okay," Molly said, but she took his arm in her hand, and turned to face him. "Sherlock…" she whispered, and her hand found his face.

She stood on her tiptoes (having discarded the heels), and she brought her mouth to his.

He was chaste at first, not knowing fully what to do, but his mouth opened a bit, and he claimed her upper lip to his mouth. His hands cupped her face, and Molly went to deepen the kiss, but he stopped and backed away.

"Molly…"

She swallowed a gasp. "I…think that was the whiskey…" she laughed. She looked away. "Goodnight, Sherlock. I'll see you Sunday."

He nodded and left the flat.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock had texted Molly Sunday to come a bit early, for he wanted to ascertain her level of comfort with him as well as discuss how they were going to have their argument.

Molly consented in her usual manner, for she didn't wish her slip to pose a threat to their established relationship.

She entered 221B to find Sherlock playing his violin by the window.

"Hi, Sherlock."

He turned to her and smiled. "Good evening, Molly. Have a seat."

She did, and fidgeted a bit, not looking up at him. "So, tonight," and finally her eyes met his.

"Yes," he sat down opposite her. "But first, I think we should talk about the elephant in the room…"

"If you mean the elephant that involves my kissing you, there is no need. It was a slip, a moment in which I felt compelled to show you some affection for being my friend, and for being so chivalrous at the club. I suppose…it's every girl's dream to have a man rescue her, to a greater or lesser extent…" and Molly smiled.

Sherlock listened to her closely, and though he would never admit it, he was a bit disappointed in her reply. "Very well. Understandable enough…I ordered take out, they'll be delivering it shortly. Shall I just follow your lead when you begin our fallout?"

"I only hope that you can keep up…" and she smiled devilishly.

"Oh, somehow I doubt that will be a problem."

Molly got up from her seat, "You underestimate me. Remember, I broke it off with Jim Moriarty, and he was insane."

His eyes widened at this. "Touche."

* * *

The Watson's arrived not long thereafter, and they all sat in the kitchen, John and Mary doing most of the talking, for Molly had begun her rouse the moment they walked in, and Sherlock followed suit.

Finally, after dinner was over, and Sherlock began mixing some drinks, Molly said, "I wonder, John, how deeply you were hurt when you discovered the truth about Mary's past."

Mary's mouth fell, and Sherlock dropped a glass.

John was stoic, looking at Molly with intensity. "What do you mean, Molly?"

"I mean, obviously some feelings of betrayal and such…but I imagine it was more…" and she got up, and went into the sitting room, wringing her hands and pacing a touch. "I certainly understand that…don't I, Sherlock?"

Sherlock smiled nervously. "Is this really the time, Molly?"

"Oh, I think this is the perfect time! Allow your friends the opportunity to know who you really are! All of those women, Sherlock…" and she shook her head affectively. "Did you tell ALL of them you loved them? I imagine you did, for it made you severing your ties with them more difficult, as is evidenced by those emails and texts…but never, not once, have you said it to me!"

He went to the sitting room, and stood opposite her. "I think you're overreacting a bit, don't you think? We can talk about this later…"

"No! You'll withstand my vitriol in front of them! You owe me that!" she breathed hard, and tears began to well in her eyes. "I suppose I should thank you for never saying the actual words…at least I was spared THAT humiliation of believing you. And I did! I believed you! All this time…with your honey-tongued words and chivalrous manner…I happily believed it all, because I'm a fool who wanted nothing more in this life than for you to reciprocate those feelings that I have held on to for so long! And you knew it! Did I mean anything to you at all? Or was this just some elaborate scheme for you to get off because I was convenient and I have lab keys?"

Her words stung deeply, despite his knowledge that she was acting. It was so ferocious a scene that he felt his stomach churn at her glare and her tears streaming down her face, and logic was abandoned, and the act stifled, and he went to her on instinct to calm her, for his hurt was acute at seeing her thus.

But Molly backed away. "Don't you dare come near me," she breathed, holding up a hand to stop him. "Don't give me that look. I know you too well, Sherlock Holmes. You can't fool me…"

"I never had any desire to fool you, Molly…but you're right," for he recalled himself. "You're absolutely right. Perhaps…we should rethink this whole thing."

Molly laughed hysterically. "Oh, I don't need to think about anything. We are through. I hate you. Don't ever come near me again." And she went over, and slapped him across the face.

She took her coat without preamble and left the flat.

Sherlock stood motionless. He hadn't expected THAT. She was very, very good. He had barely uttered a word, Molly had done it all, and there could be no doubt that she hated him.

He sighed, and ran his hand through his hair.

Then he heard it.

Clapping.

He turned to see John and Mary clapping and smiling at him.

"That's hardly a proper reaction to such a scene," Sherlock said.

"Scene," said Mary. "Excellent choice of words."

"I'm sorry?"

"Oh, Sherlock! John and I have known all along that this was an act…though I do believe that YOUR act runs a bit deeper than a fake relationship with Molly."

Sherlock went into the kitchen and glared at them both. "You knew?! You both knew all along…and you let us continue?! Now look what you've done! Molly hates me…!"

"How does it feel, mate? Being the one in the dark?" John laughed.

Mary smirked at the forlorn detective. "See, Sherlock? You think she hates you, because the lines between what's real and not have been so blurred that you cannot see them any longer. It was an act, Molly doesn't hate you, she loves you. And you love her."

"Don't be ridiculous."

Mary stood to start clearing up the dinner mess. "You love her. It's as plain as day. You need her and her goodness, her wit. She makes up for any fault you may have, and she's able to withstand all of your idiosyncrasies, however strange they are…" and Mary rolled her eyes to illustrate how very strange he was.

He was running his fingers along the back of the chair that Molly had sat in. He swallowed. "I…don't know…I don't know what to do…"

John then stood. "You go to her and tell her that you love her. I think that should fix things," he paused. "Are you really some sort of sex addict?"

"Oh please, John," and he began leaving the flat, "Of course I am."

He left, and John looked at his wife. "He really does have it bad for her. He left without his coat."

"Oh. My. God." Mary replied, and they laughed.

* * *

Sherlock's hands were stuffed in his pockets, his head bent in furious thought. How could he have missed it? He was in love with Molly Hooper? How was this possible? How was it to be explained? For how long had he been in such a state? It was beyond logic and reason…but that was rather the point, wasn't it? Logic and reason are abandoned in favor of feeling and sentiment…he winced. God, what on earth had happened to him?

It began to rain, and he then realized that he had left without his coat. He was closer to Molly's now, so he couldn't turn back…he'd be soaked by the time he reached her flat, and he laughed at the irony of it, for this very scene he had offered as a possible story at the outset if it all, when Molly came to Baker Street to declare herself.

He knew she wouldn't miss the humor of it.

* * *

Molly Hooper was smoking. She never smoked, except on very particular occasions. This, she decided, was one of them. She was drinking a glass of wine, smoking, and sitting at her kitchen table, pondering what would become of her friendship with Sherlock now.

She had been a bit over the top with her speech, but she wanted it to be believable, and part of her was still hurt at the way in which her unrequited love for the man was still so unreservedly ignored. Her love had saved his life. And the wound was not yet healed, and the friendship they now shared was a mere shadow of what she had always wanted from him.

But…it was useless to dwell on it. She refocused her mind and finished the cigarette.

She heard a knock on her door.

* * *

Molly opened her door to find a drenched Sherlock standing opposite.

Her eyes passed over his person, and she sniggered. "It takes a particular kind of idiot to leave their flat without an umbrella, or in this case, even a coat."

"Very funny."

"It is."

He rolled his eyes. "Can I come in, or shall I stand here? I'd be happy to strip down and have your neighbors phone NSY reporting a pervert outside of Molly Hooper's flat."

She stepped aside. "I'll get you a towel, shall I?"

"You've been smoking."

"I have."

He took the proffered towel and began to dry off. "Were you on the phone with your Mum?"

She looked at him quizzically. "No, why?"

"Because you only smoke when you've had an irritating conversation with your mother," and he began to unbutton his shirt.

Molly's eyes widened, and she turned away. "That isn't the only time…but it is most often the reason I smoke, yes."

He was standing in his white undershirt, drying his hair. "Can you dry this for me?" he handed her his sopping wet purple dress shirt, and Molly took it with a slight sigh. "What are the other times you smoke?"

"Um…well…the usual…mental disturbances of all sorts…" she put his shirt in the drier and took a deep breath.

"And you've had a mental disturbance?" he asked as she reentered the room.

"I suppose I have."

His voice lowered. "I wonder what the catalyst was, Molly…it must have been extreme."

"Sherlock, why are you here?"

He took his hands from his pockets, and sat down. "I wanted to congratulate you on your performance. It was something to behold."

"Ha! Told you! You never should doubt me."

"No, indeed…however, we hit a snag," his hands began to rub together, his elbows on his knees.

"Snag?"

"Yes. Apparently, Mary knew all along it was an act."

"What," it wasn't a question.

"Hmmm, yes."

"But! We…I thought I was believable!" Molly was distraught. "It must've been you…you lack experience, so surely your manner betrayed your heart."

"No, it couldn't have done," he replied, looking directly at her.

"And why not?"

"Because, apparently, I wasn't acting."

Molly's face contorted. "What? I don't…."

"I'm in love with you…or so say the Watson's."

"You…no. It's not possible," Molly shook her head.

"Oh, I think it is."

She stood. "You're in love with me?! You…" she pointed at him. "You're joking! How can I believe you? This has got to be a scheme…"

"No scheme, Molly. I'm just as surprised as you."

"But…" Molly lowered her face and her hands covered it. Sherlock went over to her and touched her arm. "No. You had better explain yourself, Sherlock Holmes."

"Explain…but I just did," he said, frowning.

She wriggled her arm free of his touch. "Well, you'll need to do a better job, then."

"I don't understand."

"You have the mind of a philosopher and can string together words at alarming speed and eloquence. I want to hear poetry! You owe me this…after all you've put me through! You owe me a beautiful explanation of all this…" and she gesticulated wildly.

"Can't we just skip it and go straight to the sex part?"

"Not starting off too good, I'm afraid."

He glared at her a moment and put his hands on his hips. He exhaled dramatically, and began to pace about.

"I'll just sit here while you collect yourself," Molly said, sitting back down.

He supposed he did owe her something…she had done so very much for him. His mind began to race, and he thought of every interaction he had ever had with Molly…from their meeting, to her asking him out, to his complaining about John, to his being jealous - of Jim Moriarty, of Tom, of every other bloke she ever dated - he thought about how she saved him, about how her sweetness would fill his thoughts when he had been away, about how his heart filled when he saw her after his return, about how she slapped him for binging on heroin, how he went to her flat in the middle of the night and she had kept him safe, about their banter, their humor together…how she knew him, how she loved him…how she had kissed him…

His hands were at his head, not quite touching it, as he navigated his mind palace. His back was facing her, he was at the opposite end of the room.

His arms fell to his side after about 30 seconds of standing there. His eyes opened.

"I've always been confused about you, I expect. I could never account for your goodness toward me, and why, after such blatant refusals, you continued to be there for me. And I was selfish, yes. I abused your position at the morgue. But it was never out of malice, for the longer and more deeply I came to know you, the more I cared about you and your happiness. I believe I unconsciously protected you from myself, for I thought that I would only bring you hurt. I recall," and he moved one step closer to Molly's chair. "That night, before I Fell, I required a final piece in the plan my brother and I concocted, and that piece was you…of course it was…it made perfect sense at the time, but in retrospect, I think I may have just wanted to be near you, to have you know that I wasn't dead…And Molly, while I was away…" another step. "Your memory brought me comfort in the frigid cold of night, it was a balm in the heat of desert, a refreshing reminder of all I had sacrificed and all I was coming home to eventually. But then I returned, and you were engaged. I had been too late, and I had only myself to blame. Did I know why I resented your fiance, did I understand the churning of my mind regarding you? No, because I ignored it…much the way I ignore so many things I don't understand. But you understand me, Molly…you see me, and yet you still love me," one step more. "It didn't ever take much for me to notice how you'd changed in your manner concerning me…your mind is nimble and quick…you have a wit that is formidable, even to me. But recently, I've been able to enjoy you and your unbridled relaxation around me, and it has made you grow in my estimation of you. I have never known a person who can render me speechless, but you have done, countless times," he paused.

"I…do not wish to be something as trivial as your 'boyfriend.' I cannot be something so trite as your 'lover,' I wish to be much more…the hand you seek when you feel unsure, the shoulder you cry on when you despair, the person you look to to have a laugh, the man you need when you desire release. To be the person you share your dreams with, your fears and sorrows, your insecurities and misgivings, to let me into the very depths of your lovely soul…I do not know if there is a term for such a role in a person's life…but that is what I would like to be for you, if you'll allow me."

He was directly in front of her now. "Was that…not good?" For he noticed the tears flowing in earnest down her face that had grown pink with emotion.

Molly stood, and reached for him.

He jumped back and held his hands up on reflex, "Don't hit me!"

"You. Stupid. Git!" she sobbed. "How…can you…say such things…?"

He was confused. "Molly…I don't understand…"

But she flung herself at him, at kissed him fervently. He returned it in kind, running his hands through her hair and down her back…she jumped up and wrapped her legs around his waist, running her hands along his scalp, never breaking the kiss.

Finally, she stopped, and buried her face in his neck, taking her arms and wrapping them about his shoulders, and he carried her thus to the chair, having her straddled to his person.

"So…that was acceptable?" he inquired.

"It'll do,' she laughed.

His finger traced her mouth. "Is it time for the sex part?"

"If my lips don't pose too small a task, I believe we can begin the sex part…"

"I think I can fix your lips…" and he took her bottom lip and sucked hard.

Molly squealed and he let go, laughing at her swollen lower lip. "Much better," he observed.

"Let's see," Molly began. "Just how large your masculine sword really is…perhaps I might be able to aid in it's size as well…"


	7. Chapter 7

Mycroft was sitting at Baker Street enjoying his tea and cake with his brother and (shockingly) his brother's girlfriend. Girlfriend, indeed.

"I cannot understand it, Molly. Honestly, you and Sherlock…you must be some sort of saint," Myroft said, shaking his head.

"Oh, I am," she said playfully. "More of an angel, I should think. Isn't that right, Sherlock?"

Sherlock entered the lounge, laughing. "Well, if you are so angelic, Molly, I fear I might be compromising your very being with the rather unspeakable acts we engage in…perhaps this arrangement should be rethought…" and he handed her a cup.

"Brother, do be mindful of the presence of others. I have no desire to hear about your carnal escapades," Mycroft said, frowning.

"It would suit you well to have yourself an escapade or two, Mycroft. You should find yourself a bake shop owner to seduce. Two birds with one stone, as they say," and Sherlock laughed soundly.

Mycroft giggled at his brother's wit. "Truly, though, my dear," he turned toward Molly. "It must be tiresome. Is he even present half of the time?"

Molly's nose scrunched in confusion, "What do you mean?"

Mycroft sat back. "Well, he is often running about London, doing god knows what…losing himself in that memory place of his…"

"Mind palace," Sherlock interrupted.

"Quite. Mind palace…" Mycroft smirked. "Though given all this, I believe I can well see how you can tolerate him. For how long have you honestly been in his entire company these past weeks…a few hours in total?"

Molly laughed. "He isn't bad, you know. He's usually funny. He's marginally attractive, he can cook well enough when pressed…he has moments of being clever…" and she winked at her boyfriend.

"You see, Mycroft. I'm perfectly acceptably mediocre, and Molly approves. Enough of your mirth, haven't you a meeting to attend? A war to start? Election to rig? Infants to scare? Puppies to drown?"

Mycroft stood. "I have never in my life drowned a puppy," and he took his leave, nodding to Molly and smiling.

The couple was then left alone, and a smile crept along Sherlock's face. "Well, now that my brother has left, whatever shall we do?"

"I like him, you know."

"Mycroft? That's absurd."

Molly laughed. "It isn't. He's a lot like you…"

"I'll pretend you didn't say that."

"He is!" Molly exclaimed. "He's funny, clever, quick…"

"He's fat, he's pompous, ridiculous, annoying…"

"Well, save the fat bit - which he isn't - you've successfully proved my point."

Sherlock laughed at her crookedly. "I believe I'll need to punish my Molly for that…"

A particular look graced her countenance, "And what do you propose should be my punishment?"

He stood and went to her with a look mixed with purpose and playfulness. "Well…" and he took her hands in his, pulling her to her feet. "I doubt you'll approve, however for such an infraction, I believe a spanking is in order…"

"Spanking?"

"Yes," and once more his voice dropped unnaturally low.

"There it is again! How is that possible? Your voice that low positively shakes my spine!"

He laughed. "Is that so?" said his most silky baritone voice.

Molly's hands slid up his chest, resuming the playful seduction after her digression. "It is…and I don't object…but you are right…how severe should my punishment be? I HAVE been naughty…"

His intake of breath was sharp. "Well…perhaps we should start with the riding crop…" and he kissed her soundly.

And though her punishment was swift and sound, the general bliss of the happy couple soon overrode any sadistic playfulness, and tenderness won out in the end. Their laughter was always to be heard in 221B, their love as loud as their laughter, and their happiness infectious to all who came in contact with them.

Mycroft did, in fact, seduce the bake shop owner as per his bother's advice; and though his diet fell to the wayside, he was much happier for it.

And Mary and John, with little Penelope in tow, spent a very great amount of time at Baker Street with their good friends. Mary always reflecting on how it was all her doing, John happy to see Sherlock tamed, at least partially, and Penelope happy for a biscuit. The family was complete, the happiness plentiful. And the sweets always in presence, for Mycroft would bring his lover's excess often to share at the flat.


End file.
